The Raydor Rule
by LizzieV
Summary: Post-7x15. When you need a broader look at things, a bar and a church always seem to do the trick. The beginning of something good. Pre-femslash. Sharon/Brenda. Let me know what you think.


Disclaimer: I do not own the Closer, nor any of the characters being used for the purposes of this fanfiction. No money is being made through its production.

Rating: T, to be on the safe side…

Spoilers: through 7x15, Silent Partner (winter season finale)

Pairing: Brenda Leigh Johnson/Sharon Raydor

Part: 1/1 (with maybe a sequel to follow?)

Dedication: To Kelly, forever my work bestie. I believe we definitely know what it feels like to be thrown under the bus by our colleagues…

Author's Note: Trying to find a new fandom to love and a fandom that will love me…and since I'm very much in love with Mary McDonnell, I hope I've found the right place.

* * *

**The Raydor Rule**

The thing that stung the most was the "thank you" Brenda Leigh Johnson whispered as she left the precinct. Sharon Raydor noticed it was particularly twangy and assumed it was because the southern deputy chief was wiping away stubborn tears as she spoke it. She didn't feel like being thanked. She felt like strangling that damn lawyer Goldberg for his little witch hunt that'd cost them all so much time and sanity. Walking back to Pope's office, Raydor couldn't shake the aura of defeat that'd been surrounding the deputy chief. It seemed all-too contagious and Sharon wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of Dodge. But first she had to take care of a little unfinished business…without killing anyone. Especially her boss.

One thing kept nagging her, however, as she made her way back. When she'd stopped Brenda before leaving, she'd said "this may not have turned out the way _we_ wanted." Where had that "we" come from?...

* * *

Sharon pushed the heavy door leading onto second floor of the parking garage with her hip, frantically searching her purse for her keys. They always seemed to elude her when she was particularly frustrated. She thought about how her fingers could magically fall across the miniature badge and chain connected to her stash of keys when she really didn't care about them...a thought becoming more pronounced as she walked closer and closer to her marked parking spot, her heels making a satisfying click upon the hard cement. Finally she pulled the jingling mass from its hiding place in her bag, looking up as she approached her vehicle. Sharon covered her shock well on what scene she found suddenly before her: a certain deputy chief leaning against her car.

"So what did you find out?" Brenda didn't even bother looking up as she asked the question; hunched over and with her head in her hand she looked absolutely pathetic.

"That's not important right now." Raydor said it in her best steady tone.

"Not important?" That surely got the deputy chief to lift her head. "What could _possibly _be more important than finally finding out which person on my team—which one of my _friends_—has betrayed me?" The hand the blonde flung to emphasize her question soon found its way to her mouth, fingernails nervously between teeth.

"I can think of three," Sharon looked up briefly before continuing, "maybe four things more important than that. And top of the list is getting you a drink. It's the Raydor rule." As soon as Sharon spoke it, she saw the flaming of the fire in Brenda's eyes. Perhaps the good Captain had gone a little too far…

Then Sharon heard Brenda laugh. The blonde threw her hands in the air, a sort of "what do I have to lose anymore anyway?" kind of gesture. "Fine." The Deputy Chief moved to the passenger side. "But you're drivin'."

* * *

It wasn't a cop bar per se, because any member of FID wouldn't be caught dead in a cop bar. Actually, they would be caught dead: their lifeless bodies would be used by their fellow officers for target practice. Let's just say the bar was "law enforcement-friendly" and, more importantly, clean. Growing up in the South had taken Brenda Leigh to one too many sleezy joints; walking into this place was a relief. Sharon led her over to a couple of empty stools near the end of the bar, nodding to the bartender who looked as if he recognized her. That'd be an interesting tidbit to decipher, Brenda thought to herself. But now, after taking a much-needed sip of her drink, she had a more important question…

"The Raydor rule, huh?"

"Ah, yes. The Raydor rule states that the answer is always at the bottom of the bottle. Or at least it seems that way when you get there…maybe not so much the next morning." Sharon's smirk was easy, almost invitingly so.

"I know the Raydor rule very well then." Brenda clinked her wine glass with her companion's as they fell into a comfortable silence. It was nice to be able to enjoy a glass of merlot without feeling guilty. She knew Fritzi didn't care if she drank in front of him—he'd told her as much on numerous occasions—but there was always that little bit of her that felt she was being judged by her alcoholic husband for imbibing. Three-fourths of a glass down and the blonde was at the point in her wine journey where it was very easy to get a little weepy. She really needed to remember to eat dinner before drinking…

"Daddy's sick…" As she let the statement hang in the air, she drained her glass and motioned to the bartender for another. Her eyes welled with tears but she kept careful not to let them drop.

"I know." Sharon turned in her stool enough to make direct eye contact with Brenda, conveying condolences without actually having to say them. "Morales told me. Actually he showed me. I was down in the morgue going over some case notes for a force investigation and he just—wham—sliced through some poor gang banger's throat and pulled out his thyroid. I'm not going to lie, it was a great visual to go along with his telling of your father's condition…but if he keeps doing that kind of thing, leaving all these thyroid-less bodies…well, people are going to start asking questions." Unfortunately for her reputation, the bartender had made quick work of refilling her glass and Brenda had been sipping while Sharon talked. That, in turn, led to a very unladylike snort and red drops of wine finding themselves in weird places in the vicinity of the deputy chief. The action earned a chuckle from Raydor as well. She thought that her mission to cheer Brenda up was finally beginning to work.

She perhaps thought too soon as Brenda continued to sip her resolve away, wetness still making her eyes shine. Once the first tear abandoned ship, it was hard to stop the silent stream from following. Sharon pushed a few cocktail napkins across the polished wood. "And, see, there is another one of those things more important than the leak." Raydor patted Brenda's thigh, holding her hand on the other woman's skirt in an effort to curb the crying. "He's going to be just fine. Your dad is nothing if not a fighter. A trait you've most definitely inherited." That little compliment got Sharon a watery smile from her blonde companion. "Who else goes into a gang kingpin like Marvin Evans' home without any back up present? I obviously knew you had something up your sleeve—more than likely Agent Howard and the FBI—or I wouldn't have let you go by yourself."

"We could have used your powers of deduction at the Agency." Brenda added, somewhat shakily.

"Could have? What am I, some old horse to be put out to pasture?" Raydor took another sip. She was still on her first glass. One of them had to make sure they got home.

"Not what I meant. I just didn't peg you for the type who'd be willin' to criss-cross the world for the greater good of the US of A is all." Brenda tried to focus on anything but the warm hand still resting on her upper thigh. "You seem so… grounded."

"Grounded." Sharon let the word linger in her mouth before continuing. "I'll take that as a compliment." Another sip before she continued. "For the record, when we were doing the prep work for your interview with the Mayor…I may have said some things that could have been taken as rude. I want to apologize for that."

Brenda Leigh's head lolled forward until it made contact with her hand, her elbow placed on the bar holding her up. She looked sideways at Sharon and squinted. "Interviewin' with the Mayor. That seems a lifetime ago. So very, very…long ago." Brenda kept her head propped up, her forearm flexing under the weight. Her unoccupied right hand grasped the stem of her glass and raised it in a toast. "To Chief Delk, however short lived his reign."

"To Delk." Raydor brought glass against glass in honor of their former boss, may God rest his soul.

"We've both said many things we shouldn't 'ave. Though I don't think I ever went as far as to accuse you of sleeping up the chain of command like you did me."

"Did you not hear my apology? I was just trying to fire you up. You seemed so lax about the whole ordeal," Sharon retorted.

"Because I didn't want to be Chief!" Brenda picked herself back up to sit straight in the stool. Well, she believed she was straight until she was suddenly falling backwards; the only thing keeping her in place was Sharon's steady hand. "Or didn't think I wanted it." She let out a deep sigh remembering the rush of disappointment that'd come after the Mayor announced she would _not_ be the next leader of the LAPD. "It's this damn job. What's the point, Cap—Sharon? Why even bother anymore? There is always going to be a next Terrell Baylor…always another Peter Goldman defending the scum. I just don't want to do it anymore." Brenda motioned the bartender back over, "I can find something else to do with my life that doesn't involve policin'. _Law enforcement."_ The last words dripped from Brenda's lips as if they left a bad aftertaste.

Sharon couldn't help herself, she let out a well-placed "oh for heaven's sake" for the benefit of the southerner and a full-on eye roll for her own benefit. "Let's get you out of here." Raydor wanted to leave the bar before some genius turned on "Piano Man" and her friend here started singing karaoke-style in self-pity.

* * *

Sharon pulled her sedan into a parking spot right next to a space with a sign that read "Reserved for Priest". Brenda's head was still swimming deliciously, but she was coherent enough to know they'd just arrived at a church. Raydor didn't give her time to ponder any further, telling her to get out of the car in a tone that brooked no refusal. The blonde smoothly covered up falling out of the vehicle, or so she thought. Sharon obviously noticed the unsteadiness and grabbed Brenda's hand as she led her up an impossibly long marble staircase towards the big wooden doors marking the sanctuary's entrance.

"What are we doing here?" Brenda asked a little louder than she should as the two walked into the entry hall. The blonde noticed Sharon dropped her hand as soon as they entered and she suddenly missed it. The place was empty, only a few lights towards the altar still lit. The majority of the light was coming from a large cache of candles set off to the side. Brenda assumed it was a memorial type thing. She really didn't know much about what Catholics did in worship, only the lies about the Catholic faith the good Baptist pastors loved to preach.

"You'll see. First, I need to see a man about some supplies." Sharon walked towards the front, bowing slightly as she came to the top of the aisle. A man Brenda only assumed was the congregation's priest walked out from a side room and greeted Raydor congenially.

"I didn't think you'd be coming tonight." The acoustics and emptiness of the room carried the priest's voice to where Brenda was rooted at a spot in the back.

"You always say that, Father Paul, and I always show." Sharon responded with a smile.

"How are the boys?" The priest handed over what looked like a bucket as he asked the question.

"With their dad." Raydor responded shortly. The priest let out a knowing "ah" before telling the brunette to call him if they needed anything and exiting. Sharon walked back to where Brenda stood, waving the bucket enticingly in front of her in an attempt to catch the other woman's eye. Sharon needed no help garnering the deputy chief's attention: she'd had it all night.

"_We_ are going to do a little bit of community service. Have you ever cleaned a pew?"

"I don't believe I can recall a time where I have." Brenda said, not hiding her lack of enthusiasm. She did not understand why she was in a church and why she was being forced to do manual labor best served to misbehavin' elementary school students. It was really killing her buzz.

"It's quite simple. I think you'll catch on quickly," Raydor played along, knowing it would annoy her friend to no end. The brunette handed a rag she'd dampened with wood polish to the deputy chief. "We're only going to do the last few rows. They are the ones that are in the most need of attention."

"Well, thanks be to God for that," Brenda huffed as she went to the opposite side of the aisle to begin work on the pew closest to the public entrance/exit. "Do you come here often?" Brenda asked it in a sarcastic tone, but wanted to know the answer.

"I come here when I need to be reminded of a few things. It's a quiet way to do a little good." Raydor paused reflectively before continuing, "It makes me remember who sits in these seats."

"What do you mean?" Brenda rubbed the rag in tight concentric circles against the wood.

"These pews—closest to the door—represent a sort of last resort. If you are a regular patron, come to Mass almost every Sunday, you're going to sit near the front. After so many years, families form sort of seating assignments at each of the services. It's an opportunity to catch up on the week, maybe even gossip—but, here," Sharon touched the back of the seat reverently, "here lies the sorrow of the downtrodden. Think about it, why would you come into this sanctuary and sit in these seats otherwise? Tears cried, heads shaking, hands trembling…that's what these pews have witnessed. And then maybe they hear something they need to hear, maybe they feel the power of a congregation of people who care, maybe they can survive another day and they sneak out quietly to face the brutal world once more. So I wash these pews because I think to myself that even when I've had a helluva day, it could have been so much worse. That's the real Raydor rule."

Brenda just looked over at Sharon and stared. Finding her voice again, she asked, "Can you say 'helluva' in a church?"

"Have you not listened to a word I've said?" Sharon shook her own head bitterly at the thought that she'd spilled a little part of her soul out and that was all she got in return. And she continued the manual labor.

They worked in silence for a few minutes before the deputy chief thought better of it. She was dazzled by the calming silence, by the faint scent of incense and hope lingering in the air. The way the candle flames flickered just enough to reflect again the stained glass windows in the most magical of ways.

"Thank you, Sharon." The sentiment was barely above a whisper. "For the perspective."

"You're welcome," Sharon sighed. She left the rag on the seat and walked across the aisle to where Brenda was working. "And we are going to get through this. Such a little obstacle in the scheme of things, right?" There was that "we" again. What bothered Sharon more was how close they were standing next to each other. How her hand made its way onto the blonde's cheek until Brenda was looking her in the eyes and could palpably feel how much she meant what she said. What bothered Sharon the most was that Brenda didn't shy away but leaned into the touch and closed her eyes.

"Okay then," was all Brenda Leigh could manage without falling to pieces again. But at least this time she was on the upside of rock bottom and in the company of one more person she could trust without reproach. They both sat down in the pew and looked over the empty rows, hand-in-hand, knowing that this would change everything. But change it for the better.

* * *

A/N: I love these two and I love these two together. Please let me know if you liked this little story…it'll go a long way to inspiring me to write more for them.


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